


Scott Carey

by TNKT



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Altered Mental States, Animal Death, Character Development, Childhood Memories, Depression, Electrocution, Gen, Growing Up, Headaches & Migraines, Murder, Paranoia, Stabbing, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 04:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7299298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TNKT/pseuds/TNKT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott Carey is a pretty normal 90's kid: he grows up like one, makes friends like one, falls in love like one, but in 2005 his life takes a turn for the worse. And he doesn't really cope well.</p><p>This is a short work which recreates what Scott Carey's life could've been like before and during the events of the Supernatural series, inspired by the few facts the show gives us about this minor character.</p><p>He appears in Season 2 Episode 10 - "Hunted" only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Growing Up

Scott Carey is a pretty average kid living in Lafayette, Indiana. Always has been.

In pre-school, he's the kid who plays in his corner with some paper and a few crayons, or with the box filled with wooden and colorful shapes. The teacher never complains about him, mostly because he goes unnoticed compared to that little fury Sarah. He doesn't cry when another kid takes away his toy or his crayon, in fact he doesn't care. He just finds the next thing to do.

In elementary school, he's the kid who sits on the small bench outside during break time, sipping on his apple juice and staring at the girls playing hopscotch in the playground. After curiously glancing at him for some time, two other boys join him, and the trio starts talking about Batman's awesome fight on TV yesterday morning and how annoying Joshua is for taking Mike's pencil without asking and how Lisa in the second front row is the prettiest girl in the whole class. He's Mike (short for Michael) and he's Chris (short for Christopher). They become friends. 

In middle school, he's the kid who hangs out quietly in the back of the classroom, or maybe on the side of it, next to the wall, where the teacher doesn't bother to interrogate him. Mike is sitting two seats away from him, and they still hang out. Chris isn't in the same middle school as them, and they haven't heard from him in a while. It's sad, but it's not unusual.  
Scott likes looking out the window when class is boring, or taking out his pencil to doodle on the side of his notes, and he does so on frequent occasions because his teacher isn't really passionate. The boy rarely participates in the hushed conversations next to him, partly because his mind is too busy thinking about things, partly because he doesn't want to get into trouble. He doesn't want his father to be disappointed – or, at any rate, more disappointed than he already seems to be. Scott never really knows what his father expects of him. His father doesn't seem to know himself. But as long as Scott remains a "good kid", Mr Carey seems to be happy with his son, so he does exactly that.  
He doesn't talk much when he and his friends are eating lunch at the cafeteria, but he listens while he opens his carton of chocolate milk, watching them narrate their lives with serious eyes. Sometimes he laughs to show them that their stories are as entertaining as they want them to be, sometimes he pulls faces to mirror the others' disgust, and occasionally he gets rowdy with them when they're talking about girls or movies on the street right outside the school.  
He's happy with the friends he has.

He doesn't have a bike, so he walks home. It's 20 minutes of walking each time, and the trip consists in crossing the road in front of his house first, then turning left to join the main road. After seven minutes of following it, he draws closer to the small shopping center, where his eyes trail over the interesting colors and patterns of the donuts sitting in rows behind the clean glass of the local Dunkin Donuts. Then he takes a right and marches along the wide playground, which is extended by the long squirrel-filled park he loves to go to when it's warm summer. There's always an ice-cream van there when the sun get hotter, skin becomes sweaty, clothes become sticky and grass becomes dry. Then after another left, it's the last five minutes of the trip until his school appears at the final junction, behind a neat little row of clean white houses. It's a pain to walk all the way to school in winter, so when it's really too cold or snowing, his dad gives him a ride.  
His house isn't big, both him and his dad live a modest lifestyle. His room is small, a bit shabby, but it's his room so he likes it. His father's a Madonna fan so a lot of her tracks usually play when they feel like some music. His friends made him listen to their personal favorites several times, hard rock and heavy metal for the most part, but he's not really into it. He likes softer tunes, like the Beatles' works, and he hums along softly when he does his homework late in the evening.  
He's happy with the life he leads.

High school is a bit different, for some reason. Without fully realizing it, he's managed to be in a "popular" group of friends. Mike's gone, however, because they had some stupid fight he doesn't remember what about and it pissed the other off big time. A broken game or something. They weren't really that close in the end, just pals, but it was still disappointing to see him leave Scott's side. Scott doesn't have a girlfriend, not really. There was Jen in 9th grade who lent him her Rubik's cube once when they were both bored and sitting next to each other in physics class: they got to talk after it was over, and there turned out to be a really good connection between both of them. They grew closer, and then intimate, but not long enough nor well enough for it to go any further than kisses. They're still friends now, and since then he hasn't felt interested in that way in any other girl.  
It's okay, though. He'll just wait for the right one to come around, he has time. This is what life is made of: waiting and finding.

So Scott Carey is a pretty normal kid.

The boy doesn't remember much about that night. He just knows the death of his mom was the year of his birth: 1983. Approximately fifteen years ago.  
Sometimes, mostly when he's lying down at night, his brain will remind him of the vague sensation of heat on his skin. And when his tired eyelids finally cover his hazel eyes, in his mind he can almost see the eerie bright shapes grotesquely dancing across the ceiling of his old nursery. It's never enough to remember it all clearly, and it always feels like trying to grasp a floating object that keeps sliding away – a sensation which never fails to irk him, but in the end he falls asleep anyway.

It's a blurry period in his memories, shadowed by time, but he knows it's a painful chapter in his father's life. He catches his dad staring at him at times, staring at him with such sad and regretful eyes that it makes him feel queasy. He feels like it might be his fault his dad acts weird around him. He's the one responsible for his mom's death in some way he doesn't know about, and his dad knows but won't tell him.  
Well, that's not really true. He was a baby, there's no way he could've killed anyone, but still... Doubt lingers in his heart, it always has. It always will.  
When he feels sick to the stomach like that, evenings heavy with what he feels are unsaid accusations, he walks out to get something sweet. Perhaps a smoothie. Maybe a milkshake. Or just go watch the latest movie, because that's always something you can wrap your mind around rather than long lasting worries.

During that year, something on the television strikes him and it's an event that will always stick to somewhere in the back of his brain. It's not about political scandals, he doesn't really care about that. It's not war. It's not a movie, it's not a show, it's not a celebrity. March 24th, in a middle school in Arkansas, two kids shoot their classmates during a fire drill. Five deaths.  
And Scott is left wondering on the couch, sitting next to his frowning dad, how such young people, teenagers like him, can kill their own classmates so mercilessly. How such violence can be possible, with this level of indifference. Of course, there's worse and he knows that. But this event speaks to him more than any other newspaper report of war and destruction.  
He wouldn't admit it to anybody, but it scares him to think someone could hurt him so easily. He avoids conflict at all costs, and he only got punched once by another guy (Mike). That was enough of an experience for him.

So Scott Carey generally dislikes violence.


	2. Falling Alone

It starts after high school, when he turns twenty: a migraine, nothing to worry about. He's never had such a bad headache in his life, but he figures it's a one time thing.  
He goes on living his life with his father.  
Then he has another headache. And another.  
It feels like a needle slowly piercing through his brain at first, then it swells and his brain tightens around it, throbbing against the sides of his skull, and smaller needles start drilling through it from the inside out.  
It becomes more frequent, and he tells his father about it. They both consider buying painkillers, but it doesn't work very well: the headaches remain agonizingly painful. Scott starts getting used to suffering from regular migraines, because he doesn't really have a choice.  
But then the nightmares start, and it's a downwards spiral from there.

The first time it happens, he's asleep in his bed but it all feels real. Too real. He hears a voice, he sees yellow eyes, and when he jolts awake completely tangled in his bedsheets, sweat sticking to his damp skin, a lingering bad feeling sits on his chest. He convinces himself it's a night terror, because of the way it felt.  
But then it happens again, and it keeps happening. The yellow eyes appear in his dreams, trained on him without fail, pinning him down in his mind and he can't move, he can't cry out, he can't get out of his head until the voice is finished telling him all the horrible things it says.  
He starts missing out on several nights, afraid to fall asleep. He hates when the yellow eyes prevent him from waking up, because he feels like a trapped rat and doesn't know if he'll manage to escape this time.  
The yellow eyed man tells him about a war. About an army. About children. Psychic powers. And the yellow eyed man tells him that he's part of that army, that he has powers: powers to kill. Just by one single touch.  
He doesn't know when or why, but he starts believing the yellow-eyed man in his dreams. He avoids other people, he avoids his father: he becomes afraid to touch anyone, and when the yellow-eyed man tells Scott to try it out on the cat next door, just to check if it's all real, his muddled brain doesn't think twice. He obeys.  
He goes to find the neighbour's cat, which always hangs out in the same spot on the wall next to his house. The cat notices the young man standing in his yard and jumps down, padding towards Scott, whiskers inviting the young man to pet him. After all, Scott has never been any danger to animals. He kneels, watching the cat as it sniffs his pants. Scott doesn't know what he's doing, and he almost feels like laughing when he realizes how insane he must be to believe his nightmares; yet at the same time, apprehension sits in the back of his head. He hesitates for a long time, and after rubbing itself against his shoes, the cat starts getting bored. When Scott understands the cat is about to walk away, he stretches out his arm, his extended hand mere centimeters away form the cat's fur. His foggy mind notices the slight tremors shaking his hand, but doesn't stop him from completing his move.  
As soon as his fingertips graze the cat's fur, he feels the end of his fingers tingling and next thing he knows, a horrible crackling sound fills his ears. The cat's body jerks violently and it falls to the ground, its tortured wailing ripping through the air as it twists wildly among the scattered leaves. Scott's eyes widen and he quickly pulls back his hand, losing his balance and hitting the ground in turn. He stays where he is, sitting on the dry grass and completely dumbfounded, his eyes resting on the small twitching body. The smell of burning hair floats around the man and the dead cat.  
He can't believe what just happened. He can't. He lifts his hand up to his face, staring at it in utter disbelief and terror, then back at the silently smoking mound of fur.  
It horrifies him to see it with his own eyes.  
It really happened.  
He scrambles to his feet, feeling sick to the stomach, heart hammering away at his ribs, and makes a run for it. He slams the front door to his house open, rushing up the stairs of his home, until he finds himself in his room. He quickly bangs his own door shut, and rests his back against it, breathing heavily.  
He catches his breath for a few minutes, then slowly slides down his door. His hands are clenched into fists, and he stares at them with tormented eyes.  
He's not normal.  
He's a monster.  
He's dangerous.  
The yellow-eyed man – he's real. He was telling the truth.  
If Scott can electrocute the cat... Then he can electrocute people. That's what the yellow-eyed man told him to do.  
But Scott doesn't want to. He won't. He's not some cold-blooded killer, that cat was an accident, it wasn't his fault. He won't do it.

He grows depressed, and he feels like some sort of toy to the yellow eyed man, a puppet dancing on thinning strings. It's like falling down a dark, deep well, and the walls are too wet and slippery to hold himself back, and he can't stop falling, all alone in this cold black pit. His father asks him what's wrong and tries to get him help, but Scott knows how dangerous it is for his father to be close to him – or for anyone else, for that matter. He knows that no one will believe him even if he does tell what's happening to him. So he prefers locking himself away for days on end, where no one can disturb him, and look for those yellow eyes in real life. His father tries to coax him out of there for the first few weeks, but to no avail. Mr Carey quickly gives up when he understands his efforts won't bear any results. His son won't even share the details of the nightmares that plague him.  
Scott spends those days thinking, worrying, fearing the yellow eyes; or leafing through his magazines, hunched over his desk with the single lamp of his room dimly lighting his work.  
He doesn't really understand why he's doing this, why is he cutting up yellow eyes from magazines? He probably looks insane. Why is he keeping paper cuts of the very thing that torments him every night? He doesn't know. He doesn't need to. He just does it because he has to.  
He looks up information about his ability. It seems to be some form of electrokinesis, where he can fry anything he wants to just by touching it. Scott doesn't want to check if that's exactly how it works.  
His room becomes progressively messier. The yellow curtains are a bit dirty, and he rarely remembers to draw them back all the way. He never makes his bed, what's the point of it? He doesn't enjoy sleeping anymore, so he doesn't care about the state of his bed. The bookshelves change over time, too: he used to keep them clean, the spines of the books would sit up straight and neat. Now he just puts them on the shelves regardless of their organisation. Some have toppled over; he doesn't bother putting them back up.

The yellow-eyed man keeps coming to him in his sleep, or rather Scott keeps getting pulled to him every night, and the strange voice tells him to use his powers to kill others. The yellow eyes penetrate his very soul, and he feels the man's orders resonating in his mind and heart every time he wakes up. The yellow-eyed man tells him to go further, always go further, and kill them, kill those humans.

Scott can feel himself slowly breaking, piece by piece. He becomes wary of every little thing. A gust of wind coming through the open window, even the softest breeze, can make him jump. His nerves are so jittery all the time that every time he drops something, he scares himself. Sometimes he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the glass, and he sees sunken eyes staring darkly back at him. They're not yellow, but it still makes him jolt when he sees his own eyes staring at him like that. He's becoming crazy, isn't he?  
He's always afraid someone will be behind him at any moment.

On some evenings, he pulls back the hanged clothes of his wardrobe to gaze at the pile of the paper eyes taped to the wall of the closet. They stare at him blankly, the lamp's shine giving them eerie yellow intensity, and he tries to observe them and compare them to the eyes he sees in his dreams, as much as his sleep-deprived brain allows him to do it.  
But none of the eyes come close to the dream's wrongness – because that's exactly what those freakish eyes are, they're wrong.


	3. Last Sighting

A year later, Scott goes to a therapist for help. 

The name of his therapist is Dr George Waxley. He's not particularly better than any other therapist. No one tipped Scott off about that great Waxley therapist from next door who does wonders about people's problems, no, nothing like that. He's just the closest one around.  
Maybe seeing him will help, maybe it won't.

When Dr Waxley sees his next patient enter, he notices the tired hazel eyes, the dark bags sitting under them, the sickly color of Scott's skin, the hollowed cheekbones, the unkempt black hair.  
And he knows this young man spends bad nights, riddled by nightmares, he understands that Scott Carey is haunted by his mind.  
They talk, and it doesn't go far at first, so Dr Waxley doesn't know what exactly brings Scott here. But then after two or three sessions, it becomes clear that his patient is sleep deprived and depressed, so he prescribes him some pills. After several tries, Scott ends up with three bottles of medication on his dresser, and they don't do much for him in the end.

Today, Scott thinks he might try to share the truth with Dr Waxley. He doesn't know how it'll turn out, but he tells himself he has to try.  
The young man sits down on the office's couch, propping up the pillows behind his back. The doctor observes the details of Scott's appearance. Gray pants, brown vest, still the same tired and pale face, the same dark circles under his eyes, even after all this time and all the medication he's been given. When he's finished getting comfortable, they start the session.  
Dr Waxley notices that Scott is hesitating, like he's not really sure he can tell him about his problems today.  
And he's right, Scott doesn't know if it was such a great idea to come here after all. It's not like the place is uncomfortable or Dr Waxley is too naggy. It's just that he's not sure if it's worth it. The doctor tries to give him a little push.  
"Don't worry Scott, you can tell me anything, you know that. Whatever you say, it won't leave this room."  
His words of encouragment are followed by momentary silence. For a while, the only thing that can be heard is the bubbling of the blue aquarium glowing in the room. Then Scott's head moves slightly to the left, glancing at the lamp set on the table besides him, then back at the therapist, and he starts talking. "It started a little over a year ago. Migraines at first. Then I found I could... do stuff." Both of his hands are laid flat out, one on the couch's armrest and one on his right knee which shakes up and down, a nervous habit that the doctor is used to observing when his patients talk to him.  
"What do you mean, do stuff?"  
Scott's knee stills. "I have this ability. When I touch something..." His hands shift, slightly lifted off their resting place. "I can electrocute it if I want."  
The doctor brings his hand to his chin, nestling it between his thumb and his index finger, as he studies his patient's face. "How do you know?"  
Scott purses his lips before admitting. "Did it to the neighbour's cat." He remembers, as he nods to himself, it was a disgusting sight. And the smell...He doesn't feel like sparing the doctor some details. "Insides fried up like a hamburger."  
The doc's hand goes back to his lap as he writes something down. Silence stretches out for a while, and Scott can see the other doesn't believe him. He speaks again, stating the obvious. "You don't believe me."  
Dr Waxley looks up from the papers to look at him, a thoughtful expression on his face. There's another small pause, then he blinks and his hand goes back to his chin. "Well, I believe in what you believe in." Which is a lie in plain sight, and they both know it.  
So Scott leans forward slowly, away from the pillows towards the therapist, holding out his hand. He has nothing to lose. He desperately wants someone to believe him. "Then here. Wanna shake on it?"  
Both stare at each other for ten seconds. The doctor's eyes slide down to Scott's outstretched hand, then back at Scott, and he chooses to hide his refusal with another inquiry. A light frown appears on his forehead."Why would you want to kill the neighbour's cat, Scott?"  
It's obvious he's trying to avoid the question, and it works, because Scott instantly pulls back. His voice is trembling slightly with emotion, carrying his distraught feelings across the room. "I don't. _He_ wants me to and he doesn't want me to stop there."  
"Who?"  
The frightening stare that haunts him every night flashes across Scott's mind. "The yellow-eyed man. Comes to me in my dreams, tells me to do things... awful things, but..." His chest heaves slightly, he shakes his head and his voice gets louder as if to convince both himself and the therapist sitting in front of him. "I tell him no. _No_ , I don't _want_ to."  
The doctor keeps his calm demeanor, his eyebrows still knit together."What else does the yellow-eyed man tell you?"  
"He..." Scott takes a deep breath. "He has plans for me."  
"What kind of plans?"  
Scott looks down, clamping his lips together. Breathes in, out. Then his eyes meet Dr Waxley's again."He says there's a war coming. That people like me, we're going to be the soldiers. Everything's about to change."  
The doctor doesn't answer, just nods to himself as he scribbles something down.

When Scott steps out of the building in the foggy night, the song that started playing in his mind back in the office grows louder: White Rabbit, by Jefferson Airplane, if he remembers correctly. Funny, he hasn't heard that song in ages. He starts walking down the paved alley, the streetlamps projecting cold shadows across the ground.  
His lone figure trudges down the street, marching along the fenced railroad.  
For some reason, he gets the feeling of being watched. He casts furtive glances behind his back, his steps unsure and faltering for a moment. There's nothing there.  
He starts walking again, and a train trails down the rails next to him, metallic clanking rising in the cold air.  
He slows down again, looking to his left, then around him. The feeling is getting stronger, and his worried stare tries to catch any sign of movement as he calls out tentatively. "Hello?"  
Nothing. He looks back again, unease filling his chest, before picking up the pace. He knows it's probably his paranoia acting up again, but he's not taking any risks. He needs to get out of here.  
The road he's walking on dips under the railroad's bridge and another train passes overhead.  
He finally nears his car, fumbling a bit with his keys, and leans over to unlock it when he notices a dark shape on the back seat's window. He turns around, and he doesn't immediately understand what he's seeing. A knife. A gloved hand. Black figure.  
Suddenly, the blade is driven in Scott's body with a grunt, and a cold sharp pain pierces through his breast. He cries out in pain, his mind kicking in survival mode, and he tries to grab his attacker to electrocute him but the other blocks his attempt, holding up his wrist with an iron grip. Somewhere in his head, Scott briefly understands that the man knows. He doesn't know how that's possible, but he knows. Scott doesn't understand, why, what, the blade twisting in his muscles and nerves, agony filling his mind and exploding tenfold when the knife is pushed deeper and deeper into him, ripping up his flesh. He doesn't hear himself grunting in pain, until his throat can only work out small sounds of suffering and his body starts numbing. Suddenly, he feels something sliding out of his chest and everything becomes cold. He doesn't realize the man is gone. Death slowly and quietly creeps up on him, veiling his surroundings and his senses.  
He doesn't feel the blood trickling down his jaw and pooling in his mouth.  
He doesn't think about closing his eyes.  
He doesn't think anything anymore.  
Scott Carey dies a painful, quick and silent death in 2007 at age twenty-two, and his body is found leaning against the cold metal of his car in a deserted parking lot of Illinois. His clothes are smeared with red, the stains contrasting with his young pale face, dull and unseeing gaze staring up at the gray sky.  
The police don't find his attacker.  
No one knows why poor Scott Carey was brutally murdered.  
His funeral is like any other, at Arbor Hill's cemetery.  
He is quickly forgotten by any and all, except for his father who doesn't understand why it happened, and will never understand why his Scotty had to die.  
And then, one month later, someone will come to find him and his killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. Scott's story.  
> I found it really sad that we didn't have more information about his character, because he really seemed to be a tortured soul from what little info we did have.  
> I hope you liked this story.  
> Please give me some feedback, I'd really, really appreciate it!


End file.
